People As Thorns

Most of us have been there: a relationship, friendship or personal situation that went sideways, fast and hard, and left deep wounds.

It's a pain that lasts, and it can be caused by all manner of things. One thing that has become increasingly clear to me throughout my life, which is a life somewhat dictated by bad health conditions, is that managing pain is very important.

How do you do that, though, when the pain is an internal one? When it's caused by a person rather than a physical trauma?

Not to say that physical trauma can't be caused by people, but I digress.

It sucks, but it IS going to hurt, for a while. Like, that won't go away. It's part of the process, and it sucks, and it continues to suck. It's why this blog isn't about making pain go away. It's about managing it.

Exacerbating it is the big risk, and a lot of people don't even necessarily know they are doing it.

I mean we've all done it to our meat, right? Our knee has made a funny noise and we've thought it might ache a little so we've just tried to walk it out - or as the Crossfit people call it, "active recovery" - and then the next day it is the size of a cantaloupe and feels like it is filled with molten glass.

If we're smart - we feel our knee do that little click-pop thing, then we slow down, we sit down, and we see how it feels. And then we go a little easier on it. And sure, the next day it aches - but it isn't the size of a cantaloupe, and it may well recover in a day, let alone a week.

We can do the same for our souls.

If this person hurt you - hurt you bad enough that it comes back at the most unsuspecting times and plagues you with anguish - then dealing with them isn't going to make it better.

So - if you can at all help it - don't.

Don't talk to them. Don't hang out with them. Don't randomly skim their social media. Don't spend time checking up on them.

It sounds kind of basic, maybe even childish, but - if you have no need to talk to them, if you aren't tied to any kind of responsibility that includes them, if the only real connection is that you two used to be together before this person did the thing they did...then there is no need.

We find this hard, though - because for a long time, this person was involved in our lives, and change is sometimes more difficult and intimidating to bear than abuse or torment. It gets easier, though. It's always easier to rip the plaster (band-aid to you folks in the US) off in one clean stroke and then ache through the aftermath, than to tug it off a micron at a time as if in dread of the discomfort.

Front-load your pain. Take it in one hit, then move past it.

The thing is that anything that could be gained by not doing this will end up bitter. If this person betrayed you, if this person hurt you bad enough that you want a revenge against them, then - tailing after them isn't going to help you.

There isn't a win condition, there.

They won't hurt the way you hurt, and certainly not visibly. They won't be disadvantaged the way you have been. They won't suffer that impact of poorly-imagined karmic justice that you thirst for - and even if something bad happens to them...it probably won't be bad enough, because they'll get up afterwards, and how dare they recover when you still hurt?

You won't find victory there. You won't even find a draw.

The reason for this is pretty simple: it's because we think that, once Person X stumbles and falls the way we believe they should, the hurting will stop and that hollow feeling in our gut will go away. The moment they fall into the bear trap or the person they cheated on you with leaves them, you turn in glee to your inner self and wait for the hurt/hollow to vanish, and...

...it just doesn't.

We do a lot of things to make that go away. A lot of folks don't even need to be damaged by anyone or anything specific to have that hurt/hollow in their gut. It is there already, for a variety of reasons - some of us are born with it. I've blogged about this kind of thing before, actually. Right over here. It's part of a four blog series I did on insecurity.

So what do we do about it? After we tear ourselves away from waiting for our temporary nemesis to fall into the bear trap?

We get on with it, honestly.

It is an oft-repeated truth that success is the best revenge, and it is one I fully believe in. Success comes in a variety of forms, but the most true way to succeed in this world is to put yourself in a situation that is better than the one you were in yesterday. Or last week, last month, last year - anything. Just to take a step up and know that it isn't leading to three steps down.

Step one of that is neutralising or discarded the things that hurt us, as previously mentioned. We have to take time to identify what is a negative influence, what is a drag on our minds and our souls, and work out how to cut it loose or streamline it to the point that it doesn't slow us down any more.

This in itself can be quite painful. We don't often like what we see when we study ourselves. That, however, is part of it. Realising that we're overly critical of our own selves, accepting that this is built into our brains as some ridiculous leftover of evolved-out behaviour, and taking that skewing of our perception of ourselves into account.

That's why we can't pin our happiness on competing against someone else. It will never be enough, because we're incapable of seeing our own worth properly, especially when we're clouded by anger and resentment. There will always be something that we find that sours even the sweetest victory against our adversary, because we'll always be looking for it.

So we cut them loose. And it hurts - and every now and then, that memory will drift back, of that good time we had.

And that's fine. Those times WERE good. Just make sure you also remember the bad times, too. We can go back and play an old video game and try and ignore its flaws, because those flaws won't wound us. Nostalgia for people is a trap.

So do what is best for you. Talk to your friends, surround yourself in things you enjoy, maybe find new things to enjoy entirely. Work hard, learn something new.

One day you will go the entire day without thinking about the thorn that stuck in your side, because you'll be too busy being your best self.

That will be a really good day.

I Am Sometimes Someone Else

"You wouldn't like me when I'm angry," said Bruce Banner, and he was right.

Note: Bruce Banner said that. Not the Hulk. Not the raging alter-ego, the Hyde to his Jeckyll. The separation is distinct, one put there deliberately and constantly.

Those who know me, know I suffer from a variety of health issues. Pain, discomfort, a lot of frustrating bullshit. It's not ideal but I try and keep my shit together most of the time - and I like to think that, most of the time, I succeed.

There are times, though...

My dad had a hell of a temper. When he got angry he was truly a sight to behold. It didn't happen often - I mean he had his moments of frustration, but the true meltdowns of epic rage, those were once-a-decade visions of disasterous glory. He never hit me or my mother, never threatened to - but by god, did he have the potential to get angry.

His anger scared me as a kid. Like, it gave me an aversion to conflict that caused me trouble throughout the entirety of my childhood, way into my teenage years, until the age of 16 when I finally realised that - every now and then, a line needs to be drawn.

Even so. Anger, frustration, drama, overt hostility - I am still averse to it. It's why soap operas bother me, and reality television - half of the content is just people being shit to each other. That bothers me, because they're not doing it for any good reason. They're not standing up for anyone's rights, or putting anyone in their right place, or correcting a wrong. They're just being assholes.

I don't like who I am when I don't have my shit together.

One of the reasons I like music is that it lets me feel all the stuff that one needs to feel, without becoming a slave to it. Like you put on the album and you feel it all. It runs through your entire body and you are a slave to it...and then it stops and you put it away and you can get on with your day.

Personally speaking, I hate the feeling of being angry for a wide cornucopia of reasons.

For one thing I hold myself to quite a high standard of being in control of myself and my things. Knowing where my stuff is, when my appointments are, where I am meant to be and when, what I should be doing at any time. I absolutely detest when I lose something or when I forget something. Being angry makes it easy to lose hold of this kind of stuff.

I also dislike how easy it is for me to get really, really hostile and hurtful when I am angry. Like engaging in a bit of banter is okay, it's like a witty sparring match. When my blood gets hot though - the banter goes. The claws come out. I do not like myself, at all, when I am in that mood - because anyone is a fair target for me.

A third thing I dislike is how angry I get at myself for being angry, which is, yes, a very dumb thing to feel but - hey, anger is irrational. I also feel guilt. Like immediately afterwards, guilt. Sometimes enough that I feel nauseous. I know I am doing something that I am not cool with, and I am not cool with that. Not one bit.

Unfortunately...being ill makes the anger thing happen a lot more than if I wasn't. And for that, I believe I owe pretty much everyone an apology.

I try not to be an asshole unless someone deserves it, but I am painfully aware of the fact that, sometimes, the asshole comes out anyway. I overthink these things for days after the fact, and wonder if I could have just been a little less tired and a little more serene, shit would have been okay.

So I am going on record here:

If I am an asshole to you, I am sorry. I'm not going to make excuses. They are reasons, not excuses. I am sorry for losing my temper, for getting snide, for not wanting to participate or for not getting into the spirit of things.

I try to be cool. I swear. It just doesn't always work.

But that isn't the real me. That's my Hulk, my Wolfman.That's the side of me that is altered, changed.

The real me is actually kinda cool, sometimes.

Promise.

Legs Eleven

WARNING: What follows is a one-man discussion of medical matters, pertaining to me. There are pictures and the pictures are kind of gross.

I'm ill.

I have several things wrong with me. One is a fairly early onset of rheumatoid arthritis, which is essentially one's own immune system attacking one's joint tissue, identifying the tissue as an invasive force. Another is idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, which is significant scarring of my lungs (in particular the left), which makes it hard to breathe at the best of times and leaves my heart working twice as hard.

These aren't really visible, per se. They're not what one would call visible illnesses. I do HAVE some visible conditions, mind - side effects of the other two.

This is the reason I don't wear shorts.

Those are my legs, clad in the compression bandages that I have on 7 days a week.

The reason they are in compression? Well, there's two reasons; Lefty and Sheldon.

This is Lefty. Lefty is a venous ulcer that sits on the outside of my left ankle. Lefty happened when I had pleurisy, around about 2010.

Leg ulcers like Lefty happen, often, due to high blood pressure. The vein wall gets stretched, allowing some degree of plasma into the tissue of the leg, which increases the chance of blisters, infections and all sorts of other nastiness. (It happens so much more in the lower parts of the leg because of gravity - the g-forces in a roller coaster really hit you as you reach the bottom of the slope and swing back up.)

Lefty has been my constant companion for six years, and he hurts. He hurts quite a lot. He's only exposed for about five minutes twice a week, when the dressing is changed. The picture was taken as aforementioned dressing-change was occuring. He hurts when I have been standing up long enough, when pressure has been put on him, when the air pressure is weird, when I have walked a lot, when I have been sat down too long, when I sneeze, when I crap, and sometimes for no apparent reason at all.

Lefty is a bastard. Lefty, however, looks a lot less problematic than Sheldon.

Sheldon looks like Patient Zero of a zombie outbreak. Sheldon looks like the land mass of the evil continent in a fantasy realm. Sheldon hurts even more than Lefty.

Sheldon has been with me for a lot less time than Lefty has; when you get one ulcer, there is perhaps an 80% chance that you will get another, in the same way as getting a chest infection will almost guarantee you will get another. I have had Sheldon for about six months. He's a lot more superficial than Lefty, which is why he hurts so damn much.

See, while Lefty hurts a lot of the time, it is a rather bearable pain, most of the time. It's a low pulsing throb, like the vague headache you have four days after going to see Slayer - unless agitated. Sheldon, however, still has all his nerve endings - and so Sheldon is a little ball of agony at the slightest provocation. I can take my blood pressure from Sheldon's pulsing, on a bad day.

Sheldon is healing faster, if only because he's more superficial. This contributes to the pain factor, as well. It looks grody, and that grodiness is overgranulation. The skin is healing a little too fast. That is both good and bad, because if it doesn't heal properly, it may lead to further ulcers in the future.

The compression bandages do several things. One is they keep the wounds covered and clean, so they don't get infected. They also provide a minor amount of bump and scrape protection. They absorb any moisture that the ulcers kick out. The primary thing they do, however, is force any plasma and such out of my tissue and back into my venal system, so it can be processed properly. (My piss smells a bit weird because of this.)

So if I grimace a bit, or shift my weight seemingly at random from foot to foot, or lean down to seemingly adjust my socks, then this is why. These two bastards, and the effect they have on my life.

They were dressed a little differently, recently; the dressing was a touch more loose than usual, and because of that, I have slept less in the past four days than most people have in the last 24 hours. I've seen the last three 3ams, and each of them has been a shitty time to be awake and alive.

Right now, though; right now I am feeling a lot better.

I am doing a lot better than I was, and that is down to the nurses, doctors and medical practicitioners that I've seen over the years. Their help has been beyond indispensible. They've been incredible.

The big question though...why Sheldon?

Well, he causes me discomfort; he's consistently not funny; he's abrasive; and he always seems to knock when not wanted. Also it complains when something is in its spot.

Treatment continues.

Feeling Strangely Fine

I'm sorry to disappoint anyone misled by the title, but this blog post isn't about Semisonic's second album.

The following disclaimer can probably apply to every entry I put into this blog but I feel it deserves repeating anyway: this entire thing is going to be from a very personal perspective. If I generalise, please understand that I am really only speaking for me. I wouldn't presume to speak for anyone else - but if you see yourself in what I write, then know that we understand each other, at least a little.

Everyone knows at least one hypochondriac, although they may not self-identify as such.

You know the type. They are sure they are sick most of the time. Either they go to the doctor once a week with a new complaint, or they never ever go to the doctor and self-diagnose instead. Either way, whenever you haven't seen them for a few days, the next time you speak to them - there's something new wrong with them.

I'm not going to say they aren't sick, or there isn't something wrong. That's not for me to say, and it's none of my business.

Here's the contrast, though; I have noticed that people with a chronic or ongoing condition, almost universally, respond to questions about their general health with a neutral or vague-positive answer. "How Are You" is replied to with terms like "Fine," or "Not Bad", or "Okay" - most of the time.

There's exceptions of course. Once you're past that moment in the street, sat down somewhere and talking and get onto actual conversational topics, and words like "In Yourself" and "Really" get tabbed onto the end of the original question - that is when more pointed answers come out.

If we went out the night before and drank enough liquor to stun a platoon of Royal Marines, then we'll happily talk about how we now have the hangover from Hades. Broken arm? Yep, look at this cast, yes I chose pink fuck off I like it. Fatigue? Arthritis? Anything chronic or perpetual? ...yeah, fine, not bad.

In my case at least, there's a lot of reasons for this.

One of those is that I'm hyper-aware of the depressing effect of hearing that one of your friends, colleagues or associates is suffering, especially if there's nothing you can do about it. I'm usually reluctant to lay that on someone. Another is a kind of insecurity; talk about how shit you feel but try to put a brave face on it and you come across as something of a martyr, whereas the lack of brave face can come across as being very moany. Again, two things I don't want to lay on anyone.

(All this is in my own head of course. Anyone else talking to me about things they are going through, I would never think that they were moaning excessively, or nailing themselves to a cross. I'm just bad at taking my own advice.)

Another factor that influences the answer to the How Are You - the scales are different. If in general a person is okay, and isn't in much pain, and doesn't find anything difficult, then their knee joint being particularly painful of a morning is going to warrant explanation or exclamation. I, however, have a very odd relationship with pain. It's worthy of comment when my joints DON'T hurt - or when they hurt enough to stop me doing my already-reduced average daily allotment of doing things.

It becomes the new normal. At first you rail against it, hate it, loathe it, want nothing more than for it to not be happening...but over days, weeks, months, years, it becomes life. It is something you work with and around rather than something you mindlessly defy. You get zen about it, or you go a little crazy.

That doesn't mean to say that you should try second-guessing people if you know they're ill and they say they're fine, because there's another reason why we say as such: some of us don't like a fuss made of us, or the attention that a full and frank explanation of our condition and its current effect on us might draw.

I'm the kind of guy that deals with sickness pretty much alone. If I have the flu, or a cold, or anything like that - I retreat into a little cave and stay there until I'm better. People bugging me doesn't help me, and in my experience, keeping your head straight helps you heal. Psychosomatics and all. So if one applies that to a condition that is not only life-altering but also totally ongoing, then, well...who wants a barrage of questions every time you get asked if you're doing okay?

It's a shitty thing to have to manage. If we look at it like a car, then it would feature numerous structural problems that make it awkward and ungainly to handle, but taking it to a garage sometimes makes it worse. Drive that for two years, and you'll stop bitching about the stiff gearstick real fast. Sooner or later, even the desperately uncomfortable seat becomes a background annoyance rather than a bane of one's existence, if you can't change it.

In the end, it is what it is. Keeping your head straight is the most important thing - it is easy to lose hope and become demoralised, even easier to focus on the debilitating effect of one's condition rather than...well...anything else, really. Some days it can feel a lot bigger than you, a lot bigger than the rest of the world even.

One way of preventing that - one way of looking illness in the eye and letting it know that it isn't all that big a deal after all - is saying that we're fine. Saying we're okay. A dismissal. Sure, most joints I have from the neck down feel like they're filled with broken glass, and my lungs are half-filled with scar tissue - but you know what? I'm fine. Can do. Can deal. Can cope. I am London circa 1941, and the illness is the Luftwaffe. Fuck you mate. I'm alright. Coventrate my fat ass.

So...yeah. I'm fine, I guess.